Exile
by paracosmic-bsf
Summary: Takes place in the "Blue Sky" universe! Rowen isn't very good at his job managing the test subjects, so when the reserve power to Aperture runs out, he's left with one lone subject to test in the hopes of achieving his purpose.


The golden hour— eleven-forty-five in the morning— had arrived, and Rowen had scraped up enough of his money to buy a bagel from the bagel girl, who wasn't much for conversation, but knew everyone's order regardless. He sat up from his desk, which was simultaneously messy and organized (he was a very unique person when it came to keeping things like important files together rather than mixed in with his personal notes and company memos), and made his way over to the copier, where she set up shop every day, without fail. 

In a wordless exchange, they traded— roughly two dollars for a cream cheese bagel— and politely nodded their thanks. Rowen snagged a napkin on his walk back to his desk, collapsed in his chair, and set aside the bagel. He'd eat it later. There were more important things to do right now, like respond to the thousands of emails that he seemed to have. In reality, it was only twenty-one, but it felt so much worse to him. 

Demanding the knowledge of robots, or artificial intelligence, his coworkers had been asking questions ever since they found out that's where he specialized. It was a wonder that he hadn't been promoted to Engineering yet, but at Aperture Science, one had to work hard for their goals, sometimes longer than a forty-hour week, unless you were rich. Then, you could buy your way in. Rowen was stuck as an entry-level employee, giving his superiors ideas when he had them, and trapped inside a tiny cubicle, which did not help the urge to pace. 

But one-by-one, the number of emails dwindled, and a wave of relief crashed over him. He hadn't taken much time to respond to each of them, and they were a bit lazy, but his attention had drifted to the flickering lights and the hum of the elevator, which was halfway across the office. Nobody would come into work this late, or they'd risk getting fired, or worse, running into one of the scientists. 

Rowen had always been able to avoid them, but rumors were spreading that not everyone could. Once they made eye contact with you, it was over. They'd take you away someplace, and you'd never be heard from again. And suddenly, Rowen's mind was on overdrive. 

_That must be them, in the elevator_, he caught himself thinking, _to collect someone else._ He wasted no time in opening up a document on his computer and typing whatever came to mind, which was, at that moment, nothing more than the lyrics to _All Star, _in paragraph form, with some extra "science"-sounding words to make it look like he was working. As he clacked away at the keyboard, he could feel the room growing quiet, and perhaps a bit colder, the only sound the dull hum of the fluorescents from above. Rowen paused and peeked out of the cubicle. 

Everyone else in the office had busied themselves— no, buried themselves— in their work, and if not, they were rushing to bathrooms or meeting rooms where they could duck and hide, because three scientists came down the aisle, walking at a brisk, slightly unnatural pace. Panicked, Rowen ducked, hiding in the corner of the cubicle. He could see someone up ahead— someone who wasn't paying attention— standing, quite nervously, by a tall plant. In fact (and he could swear by it), this person was as tall as the plant, getting dangerously close to hitting the ceiling with their head. Standing on a chair would do it. 

The three scientists went past Rowen's cubicle with a _whoosh _and went straight up to the person clinging to the plant. There was a muffled conversation, a quiet beep, and then— not a question, but a clear command. 

"Come with us, please." 

Rowen squinted at them, then, once they were out of sight, grabbed a pen, and circled the date on the calendar. He had a sickening feeling that this would not only happen again, but it would happen a _lot. _Distantly, the doors to the elevator shut, and he could hear it descend. Ahead of him, no doubt slightly freaked out by what'd just happened, he spotted the bagel girl cleaning up. The natural atmosphere of the office slowly returned, and life went on as usual. 

Soon enough, the day was over; it was five o'clock and people were packing up to go home. Rowen drew on a sweat jacket— he was off the clock now— and punched out, aching to go home and forget about the whole ordeal. 

It happened again a week later. 

This time, it was a much louder ordeal than the softer demands seven days before. Whoever the person was, he was not keen on leaving. 

"I'm supposed to _live my life!_" 

"Rick, just relax—" 

"No, I'm not going! I've seen too many people go with you and never return!" Everyone heard his search for the right words. "I'm an adventurer. I have a good sense of gut. And my gut is telling me to _stay here!_" 

There was a quiet comment, short and sweet, only interrupted by the lights above, scattering shadows. Rick calmed down, giving in, following them soon after. When Rowen looked towards the elevator, Rick was grinning wildly. He was mouthing something, and Rowen only got one word, but it meant so much— _promotion_. Rick had received a "promotion", whatever the hell that meant. And just like last time, Rowen circled the date, grabbed a sticky note, scribbled "promotion" in shaky handwriting, and added a question mark for good measure. 

But it wasn't over. Four more people left in the weeks that passed, one on Wednesday of the following week, one on Friday two weeks after that, one a week later, and another one on Wednesday. And each time, Rowen circled the date on his calendar, marking when another one of his peers was taken away. Each abduction was different from the last, making them all unique. Rowen had marked each in a phrase on a sticky note on his monitor. _Know-it-all. Thinks they're going to space. Logical thinker. Liar, genuinely kind._

Then, on Friday— D-Day— someone called a staff meeting. Rowen hadn't been able to move; he was too scared to get up out of his seat and hadn't fully processed the fact that they'd even called a meeting in the first place until someone had told him. 

Heart pounding in his chest, Rowen came into the meeting room and sat down at the very end of the table. A man, pale, thin, sickly, and a little bit tall, shut and locked the door after everyone was inside. Then, he stood up at the front of the room, the Aperture logo shining around him (nobody had shut off the projector). It was quiet for a moment before he announced, "We need to figure out a plan." 

There was a hushed moment of murmur, passed from peer to peer, before people looked at him again. 

"People have been taken from us in these last few months at random." 

Immediately, Rowen's hand shot into the air. 

"If we work together, we can— yes, Sara?" 

Rowen cringed. "Sir, if I may, that's not my name. And it was never at random." 

The man was silent for a moment and stared at Rowen with cold, dead eyes. "What do you mean?" 

Rowen, given the opportunity, ranted about what he'd gleaned from each disappearance. Personalities, physical traits, work ethic, even. The man returned his death stare but nodded. 

"Good work, Sara." 

"That's not my name." 

The man rolled his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, 'Rowen'," he replied mockingly, before leaning towards someone and stage whispering, "She's only making a scene because she wants attention." 

"Those aren't my pronouns, either," warned Rowen, standing up. The man went back to the front of the room, crossed his arms, and sighed. 

"Listen, Sara or Rowen or whatever you are—" 

"No, you listen to me! What's your name, Mike or something? You _look _like a Mike to me." 

The other employees exchanged nervous glances with one another. 

"I understand that this is a very important situation, but can you _please _respect me? I've told all of you since day one who I am, and— oh, has that light always flickered like that?" 

Then, there were warning signs; alarm bells going off in Rowen's head. 

_This was the first omen._

It was time. The first thing, the first instinct that kicked in was to run. Run far, far, away. The worst that someone could do was fire him and the others, right? Rowen tried to sort through each idea, but they were all moving too fast and he could hear "Mike" trying to get his attention and someone was chewing bubblegum even though it wasn't allowed in the office and someone else was tapping their foot; clicking their pen; it was all too much to handle and— 

"Pay attention to me, dumbass," Mike shouted, five feet away from Rowen's face. 

"We need to get out of here," Rowen managed to splutter out, taking deep breaths. "All of us. The scientists are coming soon." He wanted to add, _and they're going to select one of us, let's move out now, _but he just couldn't. Besides, a woman with fiery red hair, who according to her nametag, was Jessica, had stood up and asked, "And then what?" 

Rowen coughed, leaning into the table. "Just run. Go." 

Beside her, a man— apparently trying to make the same impression that she did— also stood up, about half her height. "Can't we just do something? Mess with that 'big project' they've been keeping under wraps?" he asked, with a rough voice. 

"Come on, Ethan," someone said, "you know their 'big project' is some sort of new technology. Everyone knows you're an accountant." 

Around Rowen, people began to laugh and quip, saying things like, "You're not cut out for Engineering," or, "You can hardly put two and two together!" It became very loud again, and Rowen could feel the overload coming on, and he wasn't going to deal with it. 

"Is anyone coming with me or am I going alone?!" he shouted, and the room suddenly grew quiet. Everyone looked away from him, even "Mike", who was now beginning to regret what he'd said. In Rowen's peripheral vision, Ethan and Jessica looked embarrassed— humiliated— and backed closer to the wall. 

"Nobody?" Rowen called again. He clenched his fist on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. "Then I'll go." He stood up straight again, brushed off his shirt, and stated, "It has been a pleasure working with you all. Good day." With that, he unlocked the door, gave the room one last chance, then left, shutting the door behind him. He could already hear the elevator humming behind him, so he had to act fast. 

He made a quick scan of the office. The doors were too far; he wouldn't make it in time. There was something else, though, down the hall. He sprinted there, fumbling to open the door. Ducking into the bathroom, he shut himself into a stall, making sure to lock it. It might not be much, but it would certainly slow them down. After realizing he couldn't see, he knew he had to stand up on something to get a good view. Taking another deep breath, he clambered up on the toilet seat, shivering with disgust all the way. 

At the far end of the stalls, there was an air vent. _A way out_. Rowen got off of the seat and began to jiggle the lock, but it was jammed. He had to crawl under the stalls to get there, and he wasn't exactly happy about that, but he did it anyway, making his way over there, not unlike a soldier, and popped up on the other end. He spent a full minute or so rubbing his arms afterward, grimacing, completely grossed out by the bathroom floor. Then, scrambling back onto the toilet seat, he grabbed ahold of the grate over the vent and tugged his hardest and— despite his best efforts— nothing. _Nothing._

In the distance, there were unfamiliar voices, then the faint opening of a door. Rowen knew what was going to happen to them, stuck there in that room. He felt terrible about leaving them but kept pulling on the metal grating, hoping, praying that it would buckle and that he could make a getaway. He found himself wanting a hammer or something like a crowbar. 

Then, he heard the bathroom door open. He panicked, began to climb off the toilet seat, and slipped, one foot landing on the ground and the other in the toilet bowl. He fell backward into the stall door, unrolling toilet paper as fast as he could, trying desperately to clean his foot off, even though he was right in the face of certain doom. Now, with no hope of getting out, no plan of any sort, and toilet paper stuck to his left foot, he was about to be met with something that only the oldest and darkest prophecies could've spoken of: three mild-looking scientists, who approached quietly and cautiously, and asked for his name. 

Rowen wanted to fight, but he knew there was no choice. Reluctantly, he handed them his ID card hanging off of his shirt pocket, and there was a quiet beep. 

"Thank you," the lead scientist said, blinking at him. "You have been confirmed. Come with us, please." 

Rowen blanked. "Can I— erm, if this is alright with you guys— can I just get some water or something, anything to really freshen up before I have to—" 

The lead scientist shook their head. "No. This is a matter of urgency and privacy. Come with us, _now, _please." 

With nothing else to say, Rowen caved. It would be a long time before he woke up next.


End file.
